University of Virginia Library

ACT THIRD.

SCENE I.

A Room.
Enter Lord Hindlee in a Night Gown.
Hind.
To what new horrors is my mind ordain'd!
O that this night were past, and a new day
Would ope its eye on this deranged world,
Where human things, and beings without mould
Or earthly quality, together blent,
Move in confusion!—Would the night were over,
That day-light might dispel them!—Such a night
I shall not brook again.
(He fixes his eyes on a part of the Room and speaks as to one.)
Ha! art thou there?
Still am I haunted?—O thou mournful shade,
Pale as thy winding sheet! why do'st thou look
On me with such concern? Is there aught more
Of horror in the onward paths of fate
That I must act? Nay, come thou near to me,
Come to my side, for now I fear thee not,—
Thy form's familiar grown—Come nigh to me,
And tell thy message in my longing ear.
Poor pallid shade, thine errand must be done!
(He listens as to one speaking.)
The same old rote!—Why thou hast told me so
A thousand times!—Why harp upon it thus,
For ever, and for ever?
(He listens again and answers.)
Well, be it so—Yes; be it as thou wilt.
(Listens.)
What? I assent? No, never! This same night
Thou hast repeated it till I am callous;
But my assent thou never shalt obtain!
Woe, that a form so saint-like, thus should preach
Nothing but blood and murder!—Hence—Avaunt!
Thou art some fiend that borrowest the shape
Of her I once held dear—O God! what do I see?
O horror! she I love stretch'd at my feet
In the agonies of death, and on her breast
A deadly wound!—and say'st thou it was I?
I'll fly to the earth's end!—Would that I could
Fly from myself, or every sense shut out!
Once more I'll view the hideous sight, that it
May freeze the very vital current up,
And reason's last poor sheltering place uproot,
Driving her to the desert.

(He steals off, keeping his eye wildly fixed on a certain part of the floor.)

SCENE II.

The Witches' Cot.
Discovers Grimald, Nora, and Gelon, standing by a Fire, at which is placed a Waxen Image.
Gel.
Are these unearthly orgies done?

Grim.
Scarce begun!—Scarce begun!—
Come, sing one other strain with me,
To charm the spirit of destiny.


(They sing slowly and wild.)
Where art thou? Where art thou?
Busy Spirit, where art thou
Weaving the fates of mortals now?
Where art thou? &c.

Grim.
(Speaks.)
(Pause.)
(Pause.)


(They sing soft and slow.)
Thou art weary, weary, weary!
Thou art weary and far away!
Hear me, gentle Spirit, hear me!
Come before the dawn of day!
Thou art weary, &c.

Re-enter Nora.
[Grim.]
Say, bodes the night's eye well or ill?

Nora.
I heard a small voice from the hill;
The vapour is deadly, pale, and still.
A murmuring sough is on the wood,
And the little star is red as blood.
Moules sits not on his throne to-night,
For there is not a hue of the grizly light;
But in the cleft of heaven I scan
The giant form of a naked man;
His eye is like the burning brand,
And he holds a sword in his right hand.

Grim.
All is not well!
By dint of spell,
Somewhere between the heavens and hell,
There is this night a wild deray,
The spirits have wandered from their way!
And the purple drops shall tinge the moon
As she wanders through the midnight noon;
And the dawning heaven shall all be red
With aerial blood by angels shed.
Be as it will,
I have the skill
To work by good, or to work by ill.
(They prick the Image alternately with sharp bodkins.)
Take that for pain!

Nora.
And that for thrall!

Grim.
And that for conscience, the worst of all!
If spirits come not, mortals shall!
Another chaunt, and then, and then,
From the but or from the ben,
Spirits shall come or christian men.


(They chaunt.)
Where is Gil-Moules,
Where is Gil-Moules,
Works he not save when the tempest howls?
Where is Gil-Moules, &c.

Grim.
(Speaks.)
Sleep'st thou, wakest thou, lord of the wind?
Mount thy steeds and gallop them blind,
Leave the red thunder-bolt lagging behind;
And the long-tail'd fiery dragon outfly,
The rocket of heaven, the bomb of the sky;
Over the dog-star, over the wain,
Over the cloud and the rainbow's mane;
Over the mountain and over the sea,
Haste, haste, haste to me!
(They pierce the Figure alternately.)
Take that for trouble!

Nora.
And that for smart!

Grim.
And that for the pang that seeks the heart!

Nora.
That for madness!

Grim.
And that for thrall!
And that for conscience, the worst of all!

(Here Lord Hindlee enters furiously, half-naked —he runs his Sword through the Breast of the Figure and overturns it—then, in distracted mood, breaks away, leaving his Sword sticking in the Image.—Pause.)
Grim.
(With raptures.)
Hail to thee! hail to thee, Spirit of might!
I judged thee deft, and I judged aright!
But ah! I knew not half thy might!
Not half so high had been my wonder
If thou had'st cleft the earth asunder,
And risen thyself from out the cell
In any shape of earth or hell!
But that the sons of men, submiss
Should leave their couch of happiness;
That knights and kings should quit their rest,
And trace the night at thy behest,
I knew it not! O, Spirit high,
Thine are the workings of destiny!—
Bless thee, fair lady of Hindlee towers,
(Kneeling to Gelon.)
These hills, these vales, and all are yours.

Nora.
Great joy and peace to thine and thee,
True love and high felicity;
No more our own dear Gelon Græme,
But Lady Hindlee shall be thy name.

Gel.
Ah me! I fear there is great offence;
I wish that I were safely hence!

Grim.
No evil thing shall thee perplex,
Thou hast a spirit above thy sex,
Above the common race of man—
What pity thou art Christian!
Thou can'st not soar in time of need
To deal with spirits or with the dead!
Or cause these mighty beings rise,
These great controuling energies!
O high should be thy gifted meed
Would'st thou renounce that shallow creed.

Gel.
Let me be gone!
If I had known
The half of what I have look'd upon,
I had never come here at midnight lone!

Grim.
Preserve that sword from human eye,
With it is twined thy destiny;
And wear upon thy bridal-day
This wounded scarf with the silver splay,
Else thou from bride-bed may'st be won
By elves this night that were outdone.
Whenever thy husband grows less warm,
Throw on this scarf; it has a charm
That soon the flame will renovate
Of mighty love, though turn'd to hate;
But never, while life and breath remain,
This sword and scarf must meet again!
Else woe to thee, and woe to me!
And woe to all that both shall see!
The hour thou givest this secret birth,
It is thy last upon the earth.—
(Exit Gelon with the Scarf and Sword.)
What thinkest thou?

Nora.
I did not trow
Thou hadst such wonderous power till now.
What is there that we may not do?

Grim.
(Kneeling.)

SCENE III.

A dark Hall.
Isabel without, knocking.
Isa.
Open the door to me!—Open the door
Without delay!—Oh! you are sleeping, are you?
'Tis well! 'tis well! But you shall have a waking!—
Open the door! or, by the rood, I'll raise
A flame shall roast you living in your dens,
You most unhallow'd sleepers!—Open the door!

Enter Hutchon half-dressed, with a light.
Hut.
What is the tumult?—Why this wild alarm?

Isa.
Wilt thou not open to me, Hutchon?

Hut.
Certes I will, good dame. (Opens.)
What drives you here
At this untimeous hour of night?

Isa.
My daughter, Hutchon!—My loved Gelon Græme!—
O I have lost my child!—But she is here—
I know it, Hutchon!—Say that she is here,
And all shall be made up.

Hut.
Here she is not, I pledge my word, good dame,—
My truth to you, and honour of my lord.
How, when, or why, deem'st thou that she is lost?
And why dost thou charge me with it?—Say all.

Isa.
I thought I had new slept; yet I had dream'd
Of grievous trouble; dreaming still I was
When some disturbing sounds awakened me.
I listened close, and at my eastern door,
Or Gelon's lattice, which I could not tell,
I heard Lord Hindlee's voice,—not in the mood
Of soothing, or of kindness, but in rage.
Loudly he seem'd to threaten and adjure:
I heard no more; trembling, a while I lay;
Then rising, to my daughter's bed I went
In chill suspense.—O, Hutchon, judge my case,
The sheets were cold, and Gelon was not there!—
Where is Lord Hindlee?

Hut.
In his chamber, dame;
His voice thou did'st not hear; 'tis all a dream.

Isa.
O do not mock me, Hutchon; as I live,
And look you in the face, I heard his voice.
Go, search his chamber straight; mine is a case
That brooks no scruple—stays no ceremony.
(Exit Hutchon.)
If he had spoke as he was wont to her,
I had held light of this.—I know his honour;
But as it was, I know not what to think.

Re-enter Hutchon.
Hut.
Alas! good dame, too true was that you said!
My lord is gone, half-naked, it would seem,
And in his hand a sword; for on the floor
I found this scabbard flung, and it was empty.

Isa.
Gone with his sword!—Oh me, my child, my child!—
What can this mean, dear Hutchon?

Hut.
Beshrew me, if I guess!—My lord last night
Was much disturb'd in mind.
We'll raise the village straight, and all the vale;—
I fear some horrid deed—Hush!—hush!—
I hear some one approach.
Enter Hindlee, smiling vacantly, habited as before.
How now, my lord?—How dost thou?

Hind.
I'm better now—I'm well—quite well—
I never felt so well.—O I have had
A most pernicious dream!

Hut.
And did you walk forth in your sleep, my lord?

Hind.
It seems I have. O I had such a dream!—
I would meet hell in countertime before
I braved again a vision of such woe.

Hut.
But are you sure it was a dream, my lord?
Where is your sword?

Hind.
I left it sticking in her breast—I slew her,
And then the charm was gone.—I slew her thus,
And down she sunk in death.—I left it there,
Stuck through her breast—I did not pull it thence—
I know not why, but there I left it sure.
And she is gone!—I had it still to do!
Now it is done, I shall be happier far
In the extreme of misery.—Ah me!—
Slain! slain!—Now it is done indeed!

Hut.
Who, my good lord?—Pray, who is slain?
What dost thou mean?

Hind.
Oh, I forgot!—It was a dream.
But ah! it was a dreadful one.

Isa.
Where is my child—my Gelon?—Where is she?—
What dost thou talk of slaying?—O, my lord,
Tell me where is my child?—I heard thy voice,
And know thou took'st her from me.

Hind.
Took who?—thy child?—Where am I?
Sure this is mine own hall.—Where have I been?—
Tell me, good dame?—Speak, Hutchon, what is this?

Isa.
Didst thou not see my child?—Speak, my good lord!

Hind.
I think I did.—Is this not all a dream?

Hut.
That thou art here I see; that thou wert hence
I know, and hadst thy sword.—Alas! I dread
Some fatal work is done.

Hind.
If I was hence in body as in mind,
And had my sword, then I have done a deed
That fiends will blush for! Yet I cannot trow
That it is over: That it was to hap
I long have known; but time as yet is green;
The withering winds of incident must come,—
The night-dews bleaken, and the burning sun
Pass over it, and sear it in the ear,
And the last blade of healthful reason drop,
Ere yet it ripen, ere it come to this.
Would God this were the last, that it were over,
Then should I know the worst!

Hut.
This is mere raving.—Recollect, my lord,
If you have seen or heard of beauteous Gelon,
And where you left her.

Hind.
Beauteous, indeed!—Oh even in death how lovely!—
Hutchon, I love that maid;—I may not say
How much—better than all the earth beside;—
Alas! I fear, better than heaven itself!

Hut.
Beauteous in death!—Hast thou then seen her dead?

Hind.
Dost thou ask that?—An hundred times I have!
And dying too—Yes, I have seen her die!
The life-blood streaming from her breast!—her looks
Fix'd ruefully on me! and then methought
I felt an inward joy that God's decree
Was done, and I his minister,—a joy it was
Of vacant desperation.—
I'll go to rest, for I am weary, dame.—
Watch with me, Hutchon, I shall dream again;
And if thou seest me quiver, or outstretch
My limbs as in convulsion, waken me;
Or should my open eyes whiten, and turn
Round in their sockets, or my deepen'd breath
Cut short, and mix with inarticulate sounds,
Oh wake me forthwith! else my struggling soul
Again may bear my passive body hence,
To do I know not what. Ah! it was sudden!—
The inmates were astonished at the deed!
Methinks I see their eyes even yet!

Hut.
From this we nothing gain.—His words and thoughts
Hang on some dread uncertainty.—I hope,
And yet I fear; for such unhallow'd thought
Could not thus feed even on distemper'd mind
Without a resting point.—Dame, hie thee home,
Call up the cottagers, make active search,
And soon as Hindlee is composed to rest,
I'll join thee in the scrutiny of this.

SCENE V.

A Room in a Country House.
Gemel, Martha.
Mar.
How is it with thee, son? Tell me thy ail.
Somewhat preys deeply on thy mind and health;
Tell it thy mother; all that thee concerns
Concerns her more.—Has thy beloved maid
Discarded thee?—Thou answer'st not to that!—
I see it all!—I see it!—Ah, my son!
Thou little know'st of women!—think not of it.
It is our way; whene'er we take offence
We love the most—Think not of that, my son.

Gem.
My Gelon is all purity and truth,
But she must ne'er be mine.—Consider well,
And tell me once again, what is mine age?

Mar.
I told thee—Twenty-three—Why dost thou start?

Gem.
Already twenty-three!—Sure thou mistakest!
Thy reckoning hath outrun the march of time
For one full year at least—I know it has—
Say one year less, and I will bless thee, mother.
Sit down, and state to me the year, the day.

Mar.
That can I well, for well may I remember!
It was that year the Kerrs and Turnbulls rode:
Thy father join'd them—Ah! that was a year
That I shall ne'er in life forget!—It was
A bloody, a severe, and stormy one!
The sheep fell down with hunger—for the snow
Lay till the suns of April master'd it.
The shepherds of the dale gather'd their dead,
And built them up for shelters to the living:
But all could nought avail!—That was a year
Not soon to be forgot!—I nursed thee then
On my young breast, and sore perplex'd I was,
Not knowing how to guide thee—When I woke
I found thee often roll'd aside, and lying
Like little chubby snow-ball, sound asleep.
But nought could hurt thee—such a healthy boy,
Or happy little elf, I ne'er beheld:
When I awoke thee, thou would'st crow and smile,
And pat my bosom with thy little hand
Cold as an icicle. O how my heart
Yearn'd over thee, and clung to thee!—Who knows
A mother's joys who has not been a mother!

Gem.
Is that aught to the question which I put?

Mar.
That was thy native year.—Now for the day—
No, not the day—the night, I should have said;
It was by night,—a Sabbath-night it was,—
The week before the king came o'er the water—
Aye, I remember well!—Thou art, my son,
To-morrow morn, three-quarters of an hour
Before the cock crow—twenty years—and four.

Gem.
(Starting up, and greatly agitated.)
O God of heaven, so soon!—Then I am gone!—
Yes, I must leave thee, mother, ere that time!
I saw it with my eyes in characters
Of deadly whiteness, “AGED TWENTY-THREE.”

Mar.
What dost thou mean? and whither goest thou?
Unsay that word; for, if thou leavest me, Gemel,
Thou seal'st thy parent's doom.

Gem.
It is too true.—That I must go, I know;
But whither I know not.—All that thou seest
Of me will not go far; a lowly home
Hard by will be my dwelling.—Woe is me!
Oh I am sick at heart!

Mar.
If these thy words
Have any meaning, I perceive it not.
Speak to me, Gemel; say some cheering word,
For all my blood runs cold.

Gem.
Then well may mine!
Oh that I could unknow it!—that I could
Close up the hideous chasm which I have made
Through the unbless'd and ever-folding shroud
That veils the terrors of futurity!
Then might I hope even to the last, and meet
Death all unaw'd, and step from this existence
Into another, scarce discerning it.
But thus to know it—thus to be assured
That ere another night is overpast
I must lay down this warm and feeling frame,
And be something I know not!—To give up all
The joys of life, and love, which never man
Held in such estimate!—To know all this,
Inflicts a death-pang every moment, till
The weary heart, o'ercome with sufferance,
Longs for the appointed hour that brings it rest,
Or change of feeling, never to change more.
And my poor Gelon, I must leave her too,
All loving as she is!—And thee, my mother,
Helpless and unprotected, here alone!

Mar.
Talk'st thou of death, and that so seriously?
This is some dream or frenzy; thou art well,
Or slightly indisposed.—O, my loved son,
No more of such illusions let me hear.

Gem.
Oh, it is seal'd and register'd beneath,
As well as in the heaven—so it would seem!
I'm not more certain that I live and breathe,
And speak to you, than that to-morrow night,
Before the eastern star, by shepherds named
The Counter of the Sky, hath gained the cope,
The zenith of the middle heaven, I shall
Be lying low indeed!—This conscious frame,
So full of keen sensation, that the sting
Of insect can molest it, all unbraced
And torpid, shall be stretch'd—If I not knew,
Why it is naught;—but the poor criminal,
All hopeless of reprieve, is not more cast
And wretched than am I.—Death still is death;
The manner of that death to him assured
Avails but little.

Mar.
But here comes one will charm thee back to life,
And drive that sullen boding mood away.
Enter Gelon.
Welcome, dear Gelon, we have need of thee;
Thy Gemel's mind is sore disturb'd, but thou
Bring'st ever with thee cure for all his ails.

Gem.
Welcome, dear Gelon.—True, my mind is sad,
But to that sadness thou add'st grievously.

Gel.
Dost thou already know that we must part?

Gem.
Alas, too well! It is decreed, my Gelon.

Gel.
Deem'st thou that heaven is kind in this?—I could
Yield all the earth beside for love of thee;
And yet must give thee up.—

Gem.
Do not repine,
'Tis vain to strive against the will of heaven,—
What is ordain'd, must, and will come to pass.

Gel.
I came to warn thee of our hapless lot;
It glads me that thou know'st and art resign'd.
Why grow'st thou paler?—I may not remain,
Else our meek acquiescence all will fly,
And we shall vainly war with Providence.
Adieu, my Gemel,—fate may sever us,
But ne'er shall drive thy image from my heart.
This is the last embrace we may indulge.
Adieu, my Gemel!
(Exit Gelon.)

Gem.
Yes, it is the last!
And she, too, knows of it!—my doom is public,
As his who dies for treason!—That dear maid
Grieves me the most of all—When I am gone,
Regard her as thine own.

Mar.
You both are mad,
Or else possess'd by some wild witchery!
The Women of the Linn have hand in this;
I'll send for them.

Gem.
If e'er within this door
One of these hags set foot—My doom is fix'd!
I'll go and pray—be not far off, my mother.
(Exit Gemel.)

Mar.
What shall I do? these women have the power
Of wreaking ill on us beyond belief;
Either I must bribe well, and brave high heaven,
Or take the cause of heaven and outbrave hell.
In both there's danger!—Would that they were cross'd,
Or to deserved punishment given up,
Then might we live unscathed, and void of dread!
My poor unhappy boy by some mishap
Hath come within their power, and who can tell
Where such wild fantasies and fears may end!

SCENE VI.

A Room.
Isabel, Gelon.
Isa.
This is the very height of wild caprice;
Come tell me where thou wert last night, my Gelon,
And tell me truly?

Gel.
Never while I live!
So ask me not again—it is a secret
That ne'er must slake the ear of enquiry.

Isa.
Well, I shall find it out, and you had best
Entrust it here, where it shall rest for ever.

Gel.
I earnestly entreat thee, ask no more.

Isa.
Saw'st thou Lord Hindlee?

Gel.
Ask him if I did.

Isa.
In all that thou and he have said of it,
There is a mystery inscrutable,
Which does astonish me—He joys that you
Are safe, and comes this day to take his leave;
For he has, in a dream or vision, had
Some strange unearthly message, that there is
A dark fatality awaiting him,
With which you are connected; and he goes
For ever from your presence, to avoid
The possibility of such event.

Gel.
He may avoid the sun, the light of heaven,
The walks of nature, and the human face,
But never that which is predestined.
Yes, he may mine the solid earth, or fly
Beyond the polar seas—but that ordain'd
Must come to pass—I yield me to my fate,
And so must he—trust me, he cannot fly.
O you shall see what power he hath to fly!

Enter Hindlee.
Isa.
Welcome, my noble lord—all yet is well;
Pray use your power to make this wayward elf
Expose the doings of the bygone night.

Hind.
O beauteous Gelon, if thou knowest aught
Of what befel, in pity of this heart,
Of this bewilder'd mind and memory,
Relate it all.

Gel.
When next you chuse, my lord,
To assay your midnight rambles, be your mind
Collected to the proof, for you may need
To give account of it.—Sooth, is it well
That you should stray forth at the midnight hour,
And then accost a maid in open day,
And, with unblushing front, require of her
To give account of you?—For shame, my lord!
It is not well!

Hind.
Perverse, like all thy sex!
Resolve me this—Did we two meet last night?

Gel.
How think'st thou of it?

Hind.
I think we did.

Gel.
In what place then?

Hind.
'Tis that which puzzles me.
No images but those of horror now
Are shadow'd on my mind—If it was not
In hell we met, I wot not where it was.

Gel.
Dost thou say so?—Thou makest my heart to ache!
Oh, would to heaven that all we did last night
Were now to do!—We'll talk of it no more.

Hind.
This is most strange!—And must my mind still hang
In burning anxiousness stretch'd on the rack?
I loved thee, Gelon—Heaven only knows
How much I loved, but I have master'd it.
I've had a message from the dead of thee;
To prove it is a false one—From this hour
Far from this peaceful valley will I fly,
And never see thee more.—I will not yield
To fate without a struggle.

Gel.
Thy resolve
Is a weak effort—far thou wilt not fly:
What must be, will be—Can'st thou countermand
The whirlwind of the desart, or turn back
The torrent when the storms of winter break?
Then may'st thou fly from fate and me, my lord.
Farewell—essay it—far thou wilt not fly.
Trust me, I know it.

Hind.
Dost thou brave me, Gelon?
Nor you, nor fate shall do it—Fare thee well—
Be happy as I wish thee, and thou shalt
Be happiest of thy race!
(Exit Hindlee.)

Isa.
Can'st thou, my child,
Give up nobility and worth, and thus
Fling fortune to the wind?—Go call him back:
Entreat him stay—say some kind thing to him.

Gel.
Think'st thou I would?—He'll come uncall'd for back;
And that too ere expected.

Isa.
It is as thou hast said! hush! here he comes.

Re-enter Hindlee.
Gel.
This time I'll prove my power over his heart,
And let him see what strength he hath to fly.

(She flings on the charmed Scarf—Hindlee seeing her, starts in amazement.)
Isa.
How now? Why this amazement?

Hind.
O, I have seen that garb, that very look!
Where I know not; but so combined and blent
With circumstance of horror, that my blood
Freezes at the remembrance!—I came back
To say one single word which I forgot,
But now I cannot go—My heart and soul
Are chain'd to thee by bond invisible.
Alas! I feel, that or in earth or heaven
Life without thee is misery!—O, my Gelon,
Have pity on my heart—I give me up
Unto thy guidance—take me to thyself
For good or ill, for sorrow or for joy,
And be my guide and ruling star through life.

Gel.
I know my fate, and, knowing it, I yield.
My early stamp'd attachments I give up,
And bow to that which is ordain'd to be:
To wage a war with settled destiny
Is impious and profane—I bow to it.

Hind.
Dost thou then say thou wilt be mine, my Gelon?

Gel.
If thou so urgest—Now, or some time hence,
I know it must be.

Hind.
At thy word I take thee;
And this same hour shall make us one for life;
And we'll be happy in despite of fate,
Of visions, or of dreams—O who with thee
Could be unhappy!—Hie we to old Lawrence,
That primitive and heavenly-minded man,
He shall unite us.

Isa.
O blissful day!—O fair and happy day!

(Exeunt.)

SCENE VII.

The Witches' Cot.
Grimald and Nora—To them enter Maldie.
Mal.
Oh, Grimald, Nora, you have ruin'd me,
By your forebodings of mishap and loss!
I ween'd the things that I was doom'd to do
The sooner done the better, and I run
Headlong to ruin—Should you now refuse
The aid which I am come to ask of you
I am undone, an outcast on the earth!
Oh my good name is lost, and all with that!

Grim.
Your name forsooth!—a trifle—a toy!
I'll give thee succour, I'll give thee joy,
I'll send it thee back by the hand of a boy.
A maid is a bed of the linjet new,
It brairds and bells in the morning dew;
When first to the earth they press it down,
O but it looks sad and woe-begone!
It rises again with a timid air,
And it looks more fresh, and it blooms more fair;
And aye till the blue-bell o'er it flows,
The more it is scathed the lovelier it blows—
Just so is a maid—Thy name's with me,
I'll send it thee back by the youngest of three.

Mal.
But quickly, quickly it must be done,
Else I am lost no more to won:
My lover has left me in mighty fume,
The priest expels me my comrade's gloom;
Therefore to save this bursting breast,
Bring back my lover and plague the priest.
Oh take him off, for he's our bane,
And keeps us all in fear and pain.

Grim.
'Tis a high thought—dost thou concede?

Mal.
That do I, Grimald, it is my meed.

Grim.
Wilt thou renounce thy baptism?

Mal.
No.

Grim.
And prick thy arm till the red blood flow?
And write thy name as I shall show?

Mal.
Oh! no, no, no!

Grim.
Then go, enjoy thy infamy;
I work for no such chaff as thee!

Mal.
And must I see my lover no more,
And the priest plague me as heretofore?

Grim.
Worse—worse—
He'll jug thee perforce—
A thing to laugh at—a thing to curse.

Mal.
Oh! woe is me! I am sunk full low!
Where shall I turn?—What shall I do?—
I'll do whatever you require,
If you will grant my full desire:
Bring back my lover and save my fame,
Take off the priest by wind or flame,
Or by the deed that wants the name.

Grim.
It shall be done.—When the fee is won,
The hour-glass of the sage is run.—
Sister, sister, how is the moon?

Nora.
She's in the wane and changes soon;
If right I guess, to-morrow morn
Up through the muir she'll thrust her horn,
Before the midnight glass has run,
Before the eyeless hour of one.

Grim.
That is the time—the hour of prime,
The spirits will trip along the rime,
So light we shall not hear their tread,
Nor note the bend of the frosty blade,
Their shadows shall flit along the green,
Yet the forms that cast them not be seen;
And thy lover shall weep in woes condign,
And burn to join his fate with thine;
And the ghostly dotard shall sleep and quake,
And close the eye that no more shall wake.
Note well the time and come to me,
For all we do must over be
Before the grey cock open his ee—
Ere the hill out of the heaven's breast,
Draw down his cowl of fleecy mist,
That shrowds within its folds of snow
The laverock's home and the den of the roe—
Ere that our spells must all be done,
The cause be lost or the victory won.